


Can I Draw You?

by LivinOnARarePair



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Art, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3423869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivinOnARarePair/pseuds/LivinOnARarePair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which PK draws Carey. A lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I Draw You?

**Author's Note:**

> Follows no particular schedule.

“PK, would you hurry the fuck up?” Carey says.

“No, Pricey,” PK says patiently. “This is a delicate process.”

Carey snorts. “Right.”

“It is,” PK insists. “Look, when you go to buy rope, don’t you take the time to look and pick out exactly what you want?”

“No,” Carey says flatly. “I always go in knowing what I’m looking for.”

“Oh,” PK says, still looking over the selection before him.

“Would you just hurry and pick one?” Carey huffs. “We’re going to be late for lunch.”

“Since when have our teammates cared if we’re a few minutes late?” PK asks.

Carey gives him a look that says it might not matter to their teammates, but it sure as hell matters to Carey.

“Fine,” PK says. He picks up another sketchbook and examines the pages. They’re thick, but not textured like most thick-paged books are. The spiral’s small enough that it won’t get in the way too much. The pages are perforated, but won’t tear out too easily. He smiles. “This one.”

“Finally,” Carey says. “Let’s go.”

PK buys the sketchbook, and they leave, making it to the rendezvous a few minutes late, but still before the Gallys. Carey scowls at him anyway.

*********

PK can’t wait to try out his new sketchbook. He’d used the last pages of the last one doing special drawings for his family’s Christmas presents. It had been a good book. He doesn’t get the opportunity to use the new one until the next day after practice, sitting at his special drawing desk in his studio. The desk sits in front of a large window that looks out over the city. He’s drawn the scene before, but he wants something fresh to begin this new book.

PK doesn’t have a specific idea in mind when he puts his pencil to the paper, just makes some long even strokes. He lets his hand play across the paper, drawing what it wants; sometimes it has a mind of its own. Apparently now is one of those times.

He watches the picture unfold, recognizes it as a scene from earlier that morning. It’s of Carey, fresh out of the shower after practice, bare and dripping, eyes ablaze with anger because someone took his towel.

PK flushes with embarrassment because he just drew his best friend _naked_ , but . . . Actually, it’s not that bad. There’s a shadow over Carey’s middle area, so PK didn’t draw . . . All of him.

Other than that, the picture’s pretty good. He captured Carey’s fury pretty well. The hollow of a bruise on his ribs. He even did a decent job on the background, detailed, but blurred so as not to draw attention away from the subject. All in all, it’s not a bad picture. PK’s keeping it.

*********

PK’s drawn Carey before. Usually at the beginning of the season, when they’d go out to lunch together, and Carey would tell PK about his offseason, summer-tanned face lighting up as he animatedly told PK about his latest rodeos. At first Carey had been skeptical, but that may have been the way PK asked.

Carey had been talking excitedly, not even batting at PK’s hands when PK stole fries, and PK had just sort of said it.

“Man, it’s really beautiful how excited you get about this stuff. Would you mind if I drew you?” he’d asked.

Carey had looked at him kind of funny, caught off guard.

“You can keep talking,” PK’d said, pulling out his sketchbook and pencil. “I just want to see if I can capture your enthusiasm.”

PK had managed to capture Carey’s enthusiasm. And his skepticism. The brightness in his face and the uncertainty in his eyes. When he’d shown Carey, the goalie had been amazed.

“Wow, how did you . . . ?”

“Years and years of practice,” PK had laughed.

“Can I keep it?” Carey had asked, eyes still fixed on the picture in wonder.

PK had planned on adding it to his portfolio; it was _really_ good, but he found himself carefully tearing the page out and handing it to Carey. “There you go, buddy.”

“Thank you,” Carey had smiled, taking it.

“Thank you for letting me draw you,” PK had said.

Ever since, PK has drawn Carey many, many times. He’s caught excited Carey a few more times. He’s drawn bored Carey and annoyed Carey. Shootout Carey and shutout Carey.

But it isn’t like he _only_ draws Carey. He draws plenty of his other teammates, guys on other teams, hot bartenders. PK draws plenty of people. Carey’s just his favourite.

*********

The next drawing comes in the middle of the next week. They’re in a lull, four days between games, and PK’s getting restless with the need to play a game. He shuts himself in his studio to clear his head for a while and doesn’t think, just draws.

The loping gait of an animal. Sunshine. Tall grass. A person with long legs.

He tunes back into the picture to do some shading, not looking at the whole thing yet, just the details. He finds himself drawing a familiar face. Finally he stops and takes a look at the full picture.

The animal is a horse. The long-legged person in the saddle is, unsurprisingly, Carey. He’s in a wide open field of tall grass. The sunlight is coming from a high point in the sky, and beneath a familiar black cowboy hat, Carey’s face is tipped up into its warmth, eyes closed, reins slack in his strong hands.

It’s a _really_ good picture, if PK does say so himself. He wants to add it to his portfolio of personal favourite pictures, but he can’t bring himself to tear the page out. Instead, he snaps a picture of it with his phone and sends it to Carey.

Carey sends back a, _Miss me PK?_

Then, _That’s really good. I like it._

Carey likes it. PK likes to impress his subjects with his drawings, but this, for some reason, creates a warmth in his chest that he carries for the rest of the day.

*********

After a frustrating shootout loss, PK locks himself in his studio to wind down in his sketchbook. His pencil hovers over the page for a few minutes, unsure of what to draw. He finally consciously decides to draw the Gallys, because they’re always fun to draw, always up to something or other.

Tonight, though, the picture just won’t come. He can’t make his lines curve exactly right, can’t capture any genuine emotion, can’t bring the picture to life. Finally, more frustrated than before, he tears the top page off, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it over his shoulder. Suddenly, PK’s hand itches with the urge to draw something, and PK just lets it go.

This picture is dramatic, he can tell. His hand flies across the paper, desperate to catch the life of the scene. It’s something fast-paced, frantic.

_Like hockey_ , his mind supplies.

His hand is cramping, but it doesn’t stop until it’s done, finally coming to rest beside the sketchbook. PK leans back and looks at the picture.

He’s drawn Carey again, though not like anything he’s done before. Carey’s in full game gear, in the middle of a tight match. It’s the shootout they just lost, PK realises. In the picture, Carey’s halfway through a windmill save, scarred pads spread wide. What amazes PK, though, is the concentration in Carey’s eyes, all his focus locked on the puck. The bead of sweat hanging on his eyelashes.

PK didn’t realise he’d ever looked at Carey that closely.

This picture is just too good not to share so again he takes a picture of it and sends it to Carey.

Carey’s reply is almost instant. _PK it’s one in the morning._

Then, _That’s really good. But why do you keep drawing me?_

And . . . PK doesn’t have an answer for that. He slowly types out _Because I like drawing you._ Then he erases that and types instead, _Maybe I see your ugly mug way too often._

Carey texts back, _Whatever PK._

PK can almost see Carey’s eye roll, and it makes him smile stupidly to himself.

*********

A few days later, PK wakes up in the middle of the night, hard and sweating. He tiptoes across his cold floor and into his studio, closing the door behind himself. He always likes to draw his dreams, to see how crazy they are, or just to keep them alive. He doesn’t really remember this one, but obviously his hand does as it starts moving across the page almost before he’s settled in his chair.

It’s weird, usually the movement is precise, but now, it alternates between languid and desperate. PK remembers how hockey-frantic it had been the other day, and it makes him wonder at the scene that’s going to appear on the page, what the pace of that must have been like.

He looks at the picture when it’s done. It’s different from what he usually draws. No whole person, not even a face. He recognizes the thick, octagonal bedposts from his own bedroom, the metal rungs spanning the distance between them. Those are his hands. Hands are fucking hard to draw, so he’d spent a whole summer a few years back drawing his own hands over and over until he could draw them right. So those are definitely his hands.

That are tied to the metal rungs stretching between the bedposts. The knots look familiar, but when PK tries to place them, all he gets is the feeling of _summer_. And then there’s another set of hands tying those knots. White. There’s a scar in the webbing between the thumb and first finger on the right hand, and . . .

PK goes cold all over. He knows that scar. Knows it’s from a childhood practice, a sister’s skate coming up when the brother had reached out to catch her before she fell. That he’d taken his glove off to get a better grip on his near empty water bottle.

Those are Carey’s hands.

Tying PK’s hands to his bedposts.

PK freaks out. He knows he should tear the page out of the book, crumple it, shred it, burn it. But . . . The shadows are just so good, the strain in his own wrists coming through, the confidence in Carey’s capable hands as he ties the familiar knots. The picture is just too _good_ to destroy.

PK slams the book shut and stuffs it into a bottom drawer of his desk. He goes back to bed and lays in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and not sleeping.

*********

“PK, man. You look tired. Out late last night?” Damn Carey and his nonchalance. Like PK isn’t freaking out over here.

“No, just . . . ,” PK yawns hugely. “Woke up earlier than intended.”

“Woke up with a drawing, eh?” Carey teases. “Surprised I didn’t get a picture at ass o’clock this morning.”

PK puts all his dwindling energy into not blushing. Some traitorous part of his mind thinks about what could have happened if he had sent the picture to Carey. If he would’ve liked it.

“Something like that,” PK mumbles.

Carey looks up at him quizzically, but doesn’t press. Instead he asks, “We still on for lunch?”

“Of course, man,” PK says.

They go out for lunch, and it’s a casual thing, something they’ve done at least a hundred times. But PK can’t sit still, can’t stop watching Carey’s hands. If Carey notices, he doesn’t say anything. After, PK goes home and crashes on his couch determined not to think about the picture for the rest of the day.

*********

The next day, things are back to normal. PK pushes the picture to the back of his mind and eventually forgets about it. It’s not like it means anything.

They play the Isles a couple days later, and PK goes out for drinks with John as is tradition. He brings two of his sketchbooks along, because John always asks about his drawings. The first one is PK’s old book. There’s pictures of his family, his teammates, Ovechkin drunk at the All Star Draft. John laughs especially hard at that one.

The last picture is of Carey, sitting perched on the bench before a practice, bent nearly in half over a book. PK remembers this one. He’d sat down on the opposite end of the bench and was almost done with the sketch before Carey even looked up. That’s the moment PK had caught: Carey looking up, still a little lost in the story, his at the time shaggy hair matted around his neck where he twirled it around his finger when he was concentrating on something.

“Wow, man,” John says, looking at the picture. “This is really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” PK says, mock-offended.

“No, I mean . . . ,” John looks up at him. “Your pictures of Price are . . . More alive.”

“I have a couple more, if you want to see them,” PK says, pulling his new sketchbook out of his bag. He flips through the book. There are only pictures of Carey in this one. John oohs and ahhs over every one, and PK gets so wrapped up in the positive comments that he forgets about the last picture. He flips the page over and quickly snaps the book closed.

“Well, that’s the last one,” he says, too quickly.

“No, wait. What was that last one?” John asks, reaching for the book.

“Nothing, man,” PK says, holding it out of his reach. “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re hiding something,” John accuses.

PK considers for a moment. “This one was just a dream that I drew.” He says, slowly flipping back to the page. He passes the book over and looks away, not wanting to see John’s reaction.

“Wow,” John breathes. “PK, this is _really_ good.”

“You think so?” PK asks hesitantly. When he looks, John’s eyes are wide as they take the picture in.

“Yeah,” John says. “It’s . . . Very _real_.”

PK squirms, uncomfortable.

“I’m assuming these are Carey’s?” John says, gesturing over the hands on the page.

PK nearly swallows his tongue.

“Hey, man. It’s okay,” John says. “You said it was a dream, right? You can’t control what you dream. Hell, one time I had a dream that _you_ were fucking me sideways.”

“Really?” PK asks, morbidly fascinated.

John shrugs. “Yeah.” He hands the book back to PK. “That one’s really good.”

“Thanks,” PK smiles, taking the book back. He feels like some weight that he hadn’t known he’d been carrying has been lifted off his shoulders.

“Now draw me,” John says.

PK laughs and flips to a page at the back of the book. He draws John laughing, eyes crinkled with mirth. After he’s finished, John makes grabby hands until PK hands the picture over.

*********

“How’s your drawing going?”

“Huh?” PK asks, looking up from where he’s meticulously taping his stick.

Carey shrugs. “I don’t know. You haven’t sent me any pictures in a couple days. I was just wondering if you were in a slump or something.”

He’s looking at PK, and why can’t he be doing something else? PK groans internally, caught under the full attention of Carey’s goalie gaze.

“Nope,” PK says. “Just haven’t had any time in the last week.”

“Hm,” Carey says. “Okay.” And he goes off to do whatever it is that goalies do before games.

The game that night is brutal, but the Habs pull ahead in the third to seal a four to two victory. Some of the guys go out for drinks after the game, and PK goes along, because he’s a social guy, and he likes his teammates, and well . . . Why not? He takes his sketchbook along because he takes it everywhere with him, just in case.

He lets himself be crowded into a table, accepts the first two beers that are pushed his way. Carey’s at another table, sitting directly in the beam of a weak overhead light, talking animatedly to someone. His cheeks are drunk-flushed, and he just looks so _happy_ that PK can’t resist pulling out his sketchbook and pencil.

He glances up every so often, hand moving carefree across the page. When he’s done and sits back to look at it, he’s impressed. He’s managed to catch the way the light plays over Carey’s cheekbones. He’s caught Carey in the middle of saying something, mouth open around a word, eyes bright and flashing with enthusiasm.

Prusty leans over PK’s shoulder, says, “Nice one, PK.”

“Thanks,” PK says absently, already pulling out his phone to take a picture. He watches Carey check his phone, watches a smile crinkle his eyes. But Carey doesn’t look up like PK was expecting. He stares at the picture a moment longer, then presses the phone to his chest with the happiest smile. PK watches him look up, watches him say, “Something like that.”

Wonders if whoever he’s talking to asked if the message was from a girlfriend.

*********

PK passes out after another hard fought win a few days later. When he wakes, it’s still dark, but he gets up anyway because he feels the need to draw. He doesn’t think he’d been dreaming, but his hand is itching with the need to put pencil to paper. He sits at his desk, but when he picks up his pencil, the picture won’t come. It’s _there_ , PK can feel it, but his hand just won’t move.

He ends up sketching a strong, but spindly tree, and then goes back to bed. When he looks at it again when he wakes up the second time, the tree is oddly . . . Goalie-shaped. He shakes his head, rubs his eyes, and looks again. Yep. It may look like a tree, but there’s a goalie underneath the foliage.

The picture that won’t come nags at PK for the next couple of days. It’s always there in the back of his mind, but he can’t get a good grip on it. It’s bleeding over, too. He’s getting distracted in practice, taking senseless penalties in games. Finally, it’s Carey that confronts him.

“What’s wrong, PK?”

“Um, do you think you could let me go?” PK asks.

“No,” Carey says, pushing PK’s shoulders more firmly into the wall outside the locker room. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” PK says.

“Bullshit,” Carey fires back. There’s venom in his eyes, and PK . . . PK wants to draw him.

“Can I draw you?” he asks.

“Will it help?” Carey asks.

“Maybe,” PK says.

Carey stares at him. “Okay,” he says finally.

“Stay here,” PK says. He hurries to the locker room, snatching his sketchbook out of his bag, and hurries back into the hall. He wants to get the picture out while Carey’s still wild-eyed. “Stay just like that,” he says to Carey.

He props his pad on his arm; he’d rather have something to set it on, but he’ll have to make do, and starts drawing furiously. Strong, hard lines. Tiny, tight spirals for the fire in Carey’s eyes. PK finishes the drawing and pushes it at Carey before slumping against the wall, sliding down it to sit in the floor.

Carey’s silent for a long minute. PK finally looks up, and Carey looks down at him.

“PK,” Carey says, sounding strangled.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” PK jokes.

“PK,” Carey says again. Wordlessly, he hands the pad back to PK, and PK finally takes a good look at it.

He’s drawn Carey from below, naked down to where the picture blurs out at the jut of Carey’s hipbones. The fire in his eyes isn’t frustration, but lust. There’s a pair of hands clutching at Carey’s arms. Familiar, dark hands.

He’s drawn Carey fucking him.

“Carey,” PK says, but Carey’s gone, long strides carrying him out of the hallway, away from PK.

*********

The thing is, PK didn’t even realise he felt that way about Carey. Sure, the picture of their hands probably should have been a clue, but that had been a dream. But this . . . He was fully aware of what he was drawing with this picture. And Carey had run when he showed it to him.

PK’s miserable when he gets home. He drops his bag just inside the door and drags himself down the hall to his study, still carrying his sketchbook. He drops himself into his chair and picks up his pencil. His hand tingles with the need to draw, and oh, not _now_. He needs to think. Draw the city, clear his mind. But the sensation is persistent, so he flips to the first available page and begins to draw.

He finishes the first drawing and flips to the next page and starts a new picture without hesitation. He draws one picture after another, every version of Carey he knows. Intensely focused game Carey, annoyed Carey telling PK to stop stealing his French fires, Carey leaning on the wall and laughing with someone at practice, Carey sleeping on an airplane, Carey on the other end of the couch watching a movie with PK, Summer Carey in his plaid shirt and cowboy hat, rope in hand.

He draws and he draws and he draws. His hand cramps worse than ever before, but he doesn’t care, just keeps drawing. He’s running out of pages, and this picture is hurried, but it tapers at the end, growing smooth and lovely. He leans back finally, and there, on the page, is Carey and PK himself, entwined in ecstasy. Carey’s head is tipped back on a sigh, exposing the long, pale line of his throat where PK has his face pressed, mouth open against Carey’s pale skin.

And someone’s knocking at his front door.

PK hurriedly shuts the sketchbook, stuffing it into his desk drawer, and then goes to answer the door. And of course, there stands Carey Price.

“Pricey,” PK says, but Carey interrupts him by shoving into his space, pushing him back into his apartment, nudging the door shut behind himself, and doing the unthinkable. Carey fists his hands in PK’s shirt and kisses him.

PK makes a noise of surprise that Carey quickly swallows up. PK finally gets with the program and kisses back dazedly. Carey kisses kind of demanding, controlling, and that’s fine with PK; he just likes kissing, however the other person likes it, but . . . 

This is _Carey_.

“Woah, man. What are you doing?” PK asks, pulling away.

“Kissing,” Carey says, like it’s obvious. “Do you not want . . .”

“You have no idea how much I want, but . . . ,” PK blinks up at him. “Do you want?”

Carey rolls his eyes. “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

“No?” PK guesses.

“I wouldn’t,” Carey says firmly. “What’s wrong?”

“Just . . . _What_?” is the best PK can come up with.

“PK, you want this, I want this. What’s the problem?” Carey asks.

“But you ran when I drew that picture . . . ,” PK says.

“I was turned on and didn’t want to pop a boner where any of our teammates could have appeared at any second,” Carey says flatly.

“Oh,” PK says, because _oh_.

“Yeah,” Carey says. “So, should we do this?”

“This is a little sudden,” PK says, feeling like something out of some awful chick flick.

Carey rolls his eyes and huffs in exasperation. “It’s really not.” At PK’s questioning look, he goes on. “We hang out all the time. We go on lunch dates, and every Friday night when you come over and we watch movies? We’ve got a fucking date night. You draw me _all the time_. We’re dating, PK. I’ve been waiting for you to figure that out so I could do this.” And he kisses PK again, deeply, but just once.

“Tell me you want this, too,” Carey breathes, eyes blazing.

“I want . . . ,” PK starts. Carey’s up in his space with his crazy eyes and his hair all wind-mussed and blushing like PK likes. PK grins. “I want to draw you.”

The corner of Carey’s mouth twitches into a reluctant smile. “I hate you so much right now. Yes, you can draw me.”

PK grins harder, if that’s even possible, and reaches down to take Carey’s hand, leading him further into the apartment, to his studio. He gets Carey to sit on the windowsill in front of the desk, the fading sunlight colouring the background a brilliant, flaming red. _Canadiens Red_ , he thinks absently. He pulls out his sketchbook again and picks up his pencil and starts drawing. The motion of his hand is harried, as PK imagines Carey is feeling right about now.

Carey sits mostly still, the fire still smoldering in his eyes, and it comes through in the picture. There’s lust, and impatience, and . . . Something that looks suspiciously like . . .

PK holds the pad out to Carey, and Carey takes it, smiles despite trying not to. “You’re really good at this, you know.”

“I’ve been told my best pictures are the ones of you,” PK says quietly.

“I’d like to see more sometime,” Carey says, handing the pad back.

“There’s a bunch in there if you want to look,” PK offers.

“Later, PK,” Carey says, and yeah, PK can get on board with that.

“Yeah, that works, too,” PK says, words tripping over each other.

Carey pulls himself to his full height and then leans over the desk. He kisses PK, and it’s slow and searching and _perfect_. PK gets a hand in Carey’s shirt and pulls him forward. “Come here.”

PK smiles into the kiss when Carey climbs onto the desk, and then moans a little when it puts Carey right in front of him, legs on either side of PK. PK breaks the kiss to get his hands on Carey’s jeans, and Carey lifts his hips to let PK slide them down out of his way, followed by his boxers. And then, there’s Carey’s cock, just . . . There. It’s a good size, flushed red.

“You just gonna look or what?” Carey asks breathlessly, and shit, _PK_ did that to him.

PK smiles up at Carey before leaning in to take the head in his mouth. Carey half-sighs, half-moans, one hand coming up to brush over PK’s head, not pushing, just sort of petting.

PK pulls off to say, “You can if you want. I don’t mind.”

Carey moans a little louder at that and guides PK back to his cock. He’s fairly gentle as he fucks PK’s mouth, and PK hums around him encouragingly, making Carey tip his head back with a sigh. After a few moments, though, Carey pulls him off, tugging PK’s head back to look at him.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, voice low.

“Fuck,” PK swears. “Yeah, man. Just . . . Yeah.”

He pulls open a drawer in his desk, taking from it a bottle of lube and a condom. Carey laughs at him, raising his eyebrows.

“Sometimes I get horny,” PK says.

“Ever finger yourself while you draw?” Carey asks, and holy _fuck_.

PK shakes his head.

“Can I finger you while you draw?” Carey asks.

PK can only nod. He couldn’t make words work right now if he tried.

Carey grins and hops off the desk. PK stands to meet him.

“Why do you still have clothes on?” Carey asks, brow furrowing in annoyance. He strips PK quickly and then shucks out of his own clothes, and PK just really wants to draw him like this. Carey pushes him back onto the desk, leaning up to kiss him. When he pulls back, his eyes are a little wide with uncertainty. “Is this okay?”

“Fuck yes, it’s okay,” PK says, spreading his legs a little.

Carey smiles. “Great.” And then he’s standing, picking up the bottle of lube, and pouring some into his hand. And fuck, how many times has PK drawn those hands, and now those long, strong fingers are going to be inside him.

“Can you . . . Like this?” Carey asks, breaking PK out of his reverie.

“Huh?” PK says intelligently.

Carey nods at the sketchbook still laying open beside PK on the desk.

“Yeah,” PK says, picking up his pencil. He has to twist kind of awkwardly to reach his sketchbook, but he’s not going to give up this view of Carey.

Carey nods and lowers his hand between PK’s legs. PK can feel his first finger circling his entrance teasingly.

“Draw.”

At the quiet command, PK sets his pencil to the paper. He draws one strong line as Carey slips his first finger in. PK shudders but holds his pencil steady as Carey starts to move his hand. PK draws like his life depends on it, slashing hard lines across the page, hoping he’s capturing Carey’s strength. His line goes a little squiggly when Carey presses a second finger in alongside the first, and PK erases it and tries again. He’s so wound up by the time Carey’s working three fingers in him, trembling everywhere except for his drawing hand. It moves as if on its own, confident, but stuttering when Carey presses that spot inside of PK that makes his vision go blurry.

Finally, his hand comes to a stop, and he has to look down at the drawing. He has captured Carey’s naked strength, naked being the key word there. He’s caught the strong lines of Carey’s body, the shadows of bruises and dips between bone and muscle.

“Done?” Carey asks.

PK smiles and hands him the sketchbook. Carey looks at it, smiling. “Do I really look like that?” he laughs looking down at his body. “PK, this is beautiful.”

“It’s how I see you,” PK says quietly. Carey looks up at him, the look in his eyes saying he understands what PK is trying to say.

“PK,” Carey breathes. He moves forward to seal their mouths together again in a searing kiss. He nudges PK a little further up on the desk and then crawls up to kneel between PK’s legs. PK wonders for a moment at the strength of this desk. He knew it was sturdy, but damn. Then Carey’s commanding his attention again.

“PK, once you go--”

PK snorts, because he really didn’t think Carey would be the type to make this joke.

Carey slaps his thigh, shutting PK up. “Listen to me. Once you go goalie, there’s no going back, got it?”

“What?” PK asks, because seriously, _What?_

“If we do this, it’s me and you, alright? _Just_ me and you,” Carey says, and he’s got that wild look in his eyes that PK is quickly falling in lo-- that PK really likes.

PK swallows. “Me and you,” he agrees.

“Okay,” Carey nods. He smiles, just a little, and leans down to kiss PK. “You ready?”

“More than,” PK says.

Carey kisses him once more, then reaches between them to line himself up. And then finally, _finally_ he’s pushing inside of PK. He doesn’t stop until he can go no further, then leans down to kiss PK, waiting for him to adjust. It’s a stretch, but it feels good. PK rolls his hips within moments, needing _more_. Carey starts to move, sliding in and out of PK in slow, languid thrusts. PK moves to meet every one, but it’s too easy. He wants it hard and fast, tells Carey as much.

“I always believed you’d be a hard and fast kind of guy,” Carey smiles against his lips.

“I can do slow,” PK protests. “Just not right now.”

“Hm,” Carey hums against where he’s mouthing at PK’s adam’s apple. He starts to fuck PK harder, getting his hands underneath himself for better leverage, and then he just _gives it_ to PK. And PK takes every hard thrust, hips snapping to meet each and every one. He keeps his eyes wide open, looking up at Carey, trying to memorize every detail, for future reference.

Carey changes his angle, and PK’s eyes slip shut on their own as he tips his head back with a low moan. Carey keeps hitting that place in PK, and this really isn’t going to last much longer. PK can feel himself quickly approaching the edge. He gasps as each thrust sends an electrical current of pleasure up and down his spine. His hands wrap around Carey’s arms, because he’s needs something to hold on to or he’s going to go fall over the edge. The edge of what, he isn’t sure, but he knows he wants to stay here with Carey, like this.

Carey reaches a hand down between them, wrapping those strong fingers that PK lo-- likes so much around his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and PK is just _done_. His eyes snap open again as he comes, watching Carey’s face as he tightens around him. Carey finishes a moment later, thrusting erratically into PK’s body. PK watches his face as he comes, already thinking . . . 

“I am definitely gonna draw that,” he says.

Carey drops his head, but PK can still see his shoulders shaking as he laughs. “You are terrible,” he says, whacking PK’s thigh.

“Says the guy with his dick in my ass,” PK fires back, and Carey laughs harder. It’s a beautiful sound, coming a little broken on still uneven breaths. PK smiles and reaches up to cup Carey’s cheek, tug him down into a kiss. Carey’s still laughing a little against his mouth, and PK . . . PK kind of . . .

“I love you.”

Carey leans up, a playful, teasing little smile playing on his lips. “Oh, you do?”

PK nods.

“Well, I guess I love you, too,” Carey says.

“You guess?” PK repeats.

Carey shrugs, still smiling. “I guess.”

“And you say I’m terrible,” PK grumbles.

Carey laughs again and leans down to kiss him. “I do love you, just so you know,” he says softly.

PK nods, bringing a hand up to card through Carey’s hair. “I know.”

They eventually get off the desk and move to the bathroom attached to PK’s bedroom to shower together. Then they collapse on the bed, barely having the energy to crawl beneath the covers before falling asleep.

*********

Carey wakes up a few hours later to find PK, already awake, and drawing on the other side of the bed. Carey watches him work, not wanting to disturb him. PK does finally look up and smile at him, then shows him the picture.

“I can’t believe you drew that,” Carey says, voice rasping a little with sleep.

“I said I was going to,” PK says.

PK’s captured it perfectly: Carey at the peak of his orgasm. There’s no doubt that that’s what it is.

“Make sure no one ever gets ahold of this book,” Carey says.

PK laughs. “Oh, I know.” 

Carey flips through the pages, looking at some of the pictures. “I like this one,” he says, indicating the picture of their hands, Carey’s tying PK’s to the bed.

PK hums his agreement. “We should do that.”

“Sorry, I left my rope in my other pants,” Carey says dryly.

“Next time, then,” PK says.

“Next time,” Carey agrees, handing the book back to PK. Then he settles back into the warm bed sleepily.

PK looks thoughtfully down at Carey. “You look really beautiful like that. Can I draw you?”

Carey suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah,” he says softly instead. He watches PK flip to the next page, the last page in the book. Looks up at him from half-lidded eyes as PK draws. PK eventually shows him the picture, and it is really nice. As always, PK has managed to catch the emotion of the scene perfectly.

“You’re really good at that,” Carey says.

PK grins, bright and happy and maybe a little embarrassed. “Thanks.”

Carey sits up and leans over to kiss PK. PK goes easily, setting his sketchbook aside. Carey moves atop him, and PK spreads his legs to let Carey kneel between them. They kiss slowly for a while, and PK can feel Carey’s cock against his hip, rousing again. He rolls his hips up, and Carey gets the message.

“Do you want to?” he asks, leaning back to look at PK.

“Would I be here if I didn’t?” PK grins up at him.

Carey smiles and kisses him again. He shifts his hips and lines himself up, then presses in in one long slide. PK’s still open from earlier, but it’s a stretch again. He tips his head back with a sigh, and Carey gets his mouth on PK’s exposed neck.

They fuck slow this time, moving together like the ocean’s waves, slow but powerful. Carey threads their fingers together, hands clasped like a promise and raises their joined hands over their heads, like a firework getting ready to pop. PK’s orgasm sneaks up on him, so caught up in the slow rolls of Carey’s hips, matching that of his tongue in PK’s mouth. Carey follows a moment later, squeezing PK’s hand until PK sees bursts of colour, red and blue, behind his eyes. They fall asleep again, still joined together.

*********

PK wakes to the sound of the pages of his sketchbook being turned.

“Did you seriously draw me as a tree?”


End file.
